


French Champagne

by theskywasblue



Series: Summer of Love 2020 [3]
Category: Inception
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25235902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: Eameshadto know it would make Arthur weak in the knees.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Series: Summer of Love 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1816525
Comments: 12
Kudos: 96





	French Champagne

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "Semi-Public Sex"

Arthur barely gets around the corner and Eames is on him. Crowding Arthur up against the wall, big, rough hands on Arthur’s hips, Tongue in Arthur’s mouth. He tastes like the stupidly expensive champagne that’s being served just a few yards away, and he makes a deeply pleased noise when he gets two fingers past Arthur’s fly and meets only skin.

“Oh Arthur, you _have_ missed me.”

“Fuck -” Arthur hisses, pulling his fly the rest of the way down with shaking hands, popping the button at the top so that Eames can get his hand all the way inside. “They ruin the fucking _lines_.”

Eames laughs, lowly, kissing the pulse that’s jumping in Arthur’s neck. His ridiculous beard is scraping the side of Arthur’s neck absolutely, beautifully raw. “Keep telling yourself that, darling.”

He has his hand all the way around Arthur, now, working him in slow, tight strokes that drive Arthur out of his mind - and fuck yes, he’s missed this, missed Eames: the dizzying smell of his cologne and the smokey-sweet smell of his skin underneath it; the drag of his teeth against the shell of Arthur’s ear that makes him groan out loud.

“Careful,” Eames warns, his voice a soft huff of laughter. “Someone might hear.”

Which - Jesus - they might. The hall is dark here, and the lights in the ballroom have been turned down now that the party has gone past its peak; but they’re still basically right out in the open, and Mal will never let Arthur live it down if anyone catches them like this.

_”Wait until you see him,” she had said, when they’d been getting ready for the party; her smile shameless in the lighted mirror. “He let himself get a little wild, when he was on that last job.”_

And she had to have known what it would do to Arthur - the sight of Eames in that rumpled three-piece suit with too many buttons undone; that lush beard just a little too long above the collar and the chest hair pushing up from below. She _had_ to know that it would make Arthur weak in the knees - weak _everywhere_ the way Eames always does.

“God _dammit_ Eames.” His head drops back against the wall with a dull _thud_ as a woman’s laughter bubbles up from somewhere nearby. Eames shifts his body minutely to cover Arthur with his body, but the hand on Arthur’s cock doesn’t slow even for a second. Arthur presses a hand over his own mouth, breathing wet against his palm; the two figures at the far end of the hall twist together, laughing, then stumble on.

“That’s right, Arthur - stay quiet now - I’ve got you.”

Eames kisses, licks the skin along Arthur’s collar where it’s already aching from beard burn. Arthur can feel the baare millimeters of space between their bodies like they’re miles instead; cold, everywhere Eames isn’t touching him. He pushes his free hand up underneath Eames’ poorly-buttoned shirt and scrapes his blunt nails against skin until Eames - forgetting or not caring that Arthur’s hand is in the way - goes for Arthur’s mouth, kisses the back of his hand instead, then pulls Arthur’s fingers away from his mouth and traps the gasp that escapes between their mouths. He kisses Arthur with the same, deep, relentless fervour that he works Arthur’s cock, until Arthur braces himself against the wall with a spit-slick palm and comes, gasping into Eames’ champagne-sweet mouth.

The sound of the party filtered back in, slowly, over the roar of Arthur’s heartbeat. Everything seemed to have died down from the eclectic roar of music and conversation. Arthur elbows some space between them so he can tuck himself back into his pants. Eames, because he probably planned this from the moment he glimpsed Arthur across the ballroom - pulls a crumpled fistful of cocktail napkins from his jacket pocket to wipe his fingers.

“There’s some on your sleeve,” Arthur tells him, trying to sound unaffected, rather than hopelessly breathless. He’s warm all over, sweating under his jacket; he desperately wants to get out of his clothes and put his skin against Eames’.

Eames clucks his tongue, “Ah well - I never much liked this jacket, if I’m honest.”

“Why not - it looks good on you.”

He laughs, dabbing at his sleeve for a moment. “I knew you’d think so. That’s why I wore it. Best foot forward and all.”

Arthur bites back a smile, reaches to straighten Eames’ collar just as another figure appears at the end of the hall.

“Alex?” A man’s voice calls.

“Not here, mate,” Eamse replies without looking over, and after a moment’s hesitation, the man wanders off.

“We should get back,” Arthur says. The longer they stand here the more likely it is that someone will wonder what they are doing.

“Right, of course.” Eames ducks his head - Arthur would almost say he looks shy, except he just had his hand around Arthur’s cock not five minutes ago - conceals the filthy napkins, then pulls something else from his pants pocket this time and passes it, not at all discreetly, directly into Arthur’s.

“What are you -” Arthur reaches for his pocket, but Eames’ hand on his wrist stops him short.

“For later?” he smiles, nakedly hopeful. “Room 583. Unless you’re still cross with me for taking that last job.”

Arthur huffs, turns his face just a little bit away, so that he’s watching the broken dance of shadows on the opposite wall over Eames’ shoulder, rather than looking him directly in the eye when he says, “Maybe. Aren’t I always a little bit mad at you?”

Eames laughs. His mouth finds the side of Arthur’s neck, his cheek, his mouth - but only chastely. “That’s the spirit, Arthur. I’ll see you later, then.”

He gives Arthur one last kiss - less chaste this time - gives his rumpled shirt a final, thoughtless tug, and then he’s gone, down the hall and around the narrow corner, vanishing into the thinning crowd like a ghost. Arthur stands in the shadows of the hall for a moment, fingering the smooth edges of the room key in his pocket, and then goes to find himself a glass of champagne.

-End-


End file.
